The time is now come when the town is again beginning to be full, and the rusticated beauty sees an end of her banishment. Those whom the tyranny of fashion had condemned to pass the summer among shades and brooks, are now preparing to return to plays, balls, and assemblies, with health restored by retirement, and spirits kindled by expectation.

Many a mind which has languished some months without emotion or desire, now feels a sudden renovation of its faculties. It was long ago observed by Pythagoras, that ability and necessity dwell near each other.1 She that wandered in the garden without sense of its fragrance, and lay day after day stretch'd upon a couch behind a green curtain, unwilling to wake and unable to sleep, now summons her thoughts to consider which of her last year's cloaths shall be seen again, and to anticipate the raptures of a new suit; the day and the night are now filled with occupation; the laces which were too fine to be worn among rusticks, are taken from the boxes and reviewed, and the eye is no sooner closed after its labours, than whole shops of silk busy the fancy.

But happiness is nothing if it is not known, and very little if it is not envied. Before the day of departure a week is always appropriated to the payment and reception of ceremonial visits, at which nothing can be mentioned but the delights of London. The lady who is hastening to the scene of action flutters her wings, displays her prospects of felicity, tells how she grudges every moment of delay, and in the presence of those whom she knows condemned to stay at home, is sure to wonder by what arts life can be made supportable thro' a winter in the country, and to tell how often amidst the extasies of an opera she shall pity those friends whom she has left behind. Her hope of giving pain is seldom disappointed; the affected indifference of one, the faint congratulations of another, the wishes of some openly confessed, and the silent dejection of the rest, all exalt her opinion of her own superiority.

But however we may labour for our own deception, truth, thougha unwelcome, will sometimes intrude upon the mind. They who have already enjoyed the crouds and noise of the great city, know that their desire to return is little more than the restlessness of a vacant mind,b that they are not so much led by hope as driven by disgust, and wish rather to leave the country than to see the town. There is commonly in every coach a passenger enwrapped in silent expectation, whose joy is more sincere and whose hopes are more exalted. The virgin whom the last summer released from her governess, and who is now going between her mother and her aunt to try the fortune of her wit and beauty, suspects no fallacy in the gay representation. She believes herself passing into another world, and images London as an Elysian region, where every hour has its proper pleasure, where nothing is seen but the blaze of wealth, and nothing heard but merriment and flattery; where the morning always rises on a show, and the evening closes on a ball; where the eyes are used only to sparkle, and the feet only to dance.

Her aunt and her mother amuse themselves on the road, with telling her of dangers to be dreaded and cautions to be observed. She hears them as they heard their predecessors, with incredulity or contempt. She sees that they have ventured and escaped; and one of the pleasures which she promises herself is to detect their falshoods, and be freed from their admonitions.

We are inclined to believe those whom we do not know, because they never have deceived us. The fair adventurer may perhaps listen to the Idler, whom she cannot suspect of rivalry or malice, yet he scarcely expects to be credited when he tells her, that her expectations will likewisec end in disappointment.

The uniform necessities of human nature produce in a great measure uniformity of life, and for part of the day make one place like another: to dress and to undress, to eat and to sleep, are the same in London asd in the country. The supernumerary hours have indeed a greater variety both of pleasure and of pain. The stranger gazed on by multitudes at her first appearance in the park, is perhaps on the highest summit of female happiness; but how greate is the anguish when the novelty of another face draws her worshipersf away. The heart may leap for a time under a fine gown, but the sight of a gown yet finer puts an end to rapture. In the first row at an opera two hours may be happily passed in listening to the musick on the stage, and watching the glances of the company; but how will the night end in despondency when she that imagined herself the sovereign of the place sees lords contending to lead Iris to her chair? There is little pleasure in conversation to her whose wit is regarded but in the second place; and who can dance with ease or spirit that sees Amaryllis led out before her? She that fanciesg nothing but a succession of pleasures, will find herself engaged without design in numberless competitions, and mortified without provocation with numberless afflictions.

But I do not mean to extinguish that ardour which I wish to moderate, or to discourage those whom I am endeavouring to restrain. To know the world is necessary, since we were born for the help of one another; and to know it early is convenient, if it be only that we may learn early to despise it. She that brings to London a mind well prepared for improvement, tho' she misses her hope of uninterrupted happiness, will gain in return an opportunity of adding knowledge to vivacity, and enlarging innocence to virtue.